


It Takes a Genius

by hannahrieu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Post The Great Game, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 05:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3315866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrieu/pseuds/hannahrieu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened between the time John left Baker Street and Sherlock ended up at the pool with Moriarty? What was really going on in Sherlock's head while the madman had a bomb strapped to John? What if that was the moment Sherlock realized he was in love with John? How would he react? How would John react? Those are the questions I'm trying to answer in this ongoing multi-chaptered fanfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Takes a Genius

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BanimalQ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BanimalQ/gifts).



> Thanks to BanimalQ for her beta skillz and overall awesomeness.
> 
> [Visit our blog Fanlock: So Sick, Yet So Beautiful](http://fanlock.wordpress.com/2014/11/05/manny/)

Sherlock promised to buy milk. And beans.

_Yes, John, I’ll go to Tesco, anything to move this along, he thought. Just leave, go, allez-vous en! I have to get to him, HIM, tonight!_

Moriarty.

The idea of meeting Moriarty, to parade the elusive memory stick in front of the clever and deviant mastermind made Sherlock giddy. He’d been sitting in his coat curled up on his chair for an hour, pretending to be engrossed in crap telly, waiting for John to get out. Finally, saying something about Sarah and milk and beans – Sherlock quickly made the promise to buy the latter, though intended to do nothing of the sort- John left and Sherlock found himself blissfully alone. He quickly pulled out his computer and typed:

_Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight_.

He snapped the laptop shut and bounded down the stairs two at a time.

The cab ride was 45 minutes even in the dead of night. He had the cabbie drop him four blocks away from the pool. It’d been ages since Sherlock had stepped foot in the place, but the side entrance still had a lousy lock that was no match for his nimble fingers.

The smell of chlorine filled his nostrils as he listened to the water lap gently against the sides of the pool. The memory stick was burning a hole in his pocket and his brain. Sherlock pranced along the concrete, flashing the black stick with the hope of taunting his new nemesis out of hiding.

“All your little puzzles making me dance, all to distract me from this!” he bellowed.

His voice echoed as loudly as the door slamming behind John Watson.

John stood somberly in a heavy winter coat, the outerwear odd and out of place in the warm, humid conditions of the pool.

“Evening,” said John. “This is a turn-up, isn’t it Sherlock?”

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face.

_No, no this cannot be_.

“John? What the hell-?”

“I bet you never saw this coming.”

Sherlock stumbled forward in disbelief. His eyes bored into John’s. John stared back, his gaze steady.

For the first time since Sherlock had known John, he couldn’t read him. He couldn’t deduce. He couldn’t tell what John was thinking, what he was feeling, what he’d had for supper, if he and Sarah had shagged before he arrived here… No, he couldn’t do these things because his own emotions had taken over his faculties. The thought of John not being who Sherlock thought he was – the loyal, sweet, caring friend that had taken care of him through quiet days and dangerous nights, who accepted the severed head in the fridge and the toes in the canning jar next to the pickles in the fridge. John, who barely knew him at the time but still shot a serial killer in cold blood to save Sherlock’s life; it was not something Sherlock could possibly accept, or even process.

_John, who thinks I’m brilliant, and amazing, and impossible. My John…Oh my God._

John moved his coat to reveal the bomb strapped to his chest. Sherlock’s stomach turned sour.

All at once, his faculties returned.

_I’m going to murder the man who has done this to my John._

Sherlock knew he was near, but when the voice called out behind the locker room and Jim Moriarty strolled out, it took every ounce of his energy to keep himself still. The image of tackling the little bitch into the pool and drowning him with his bare hands made Sherlock brave, though his insides were shaking harder than he could ever remember them shaking.

_I must get John out of here._

The banter back and forth with Moriarty was automatic. Sherlock half-listened to the little prick as he approached John. The gun he’d had pointing at Moriarty since his appearance never wavered, but Sherlock’s eyes kept darting back and forth to John, as if any moment would be the last time he’d see him in the flesh. That’s when he noticed the red dot on John’s neck. _Sniper._

Sherlock cocked the gun. Moriarty creeped closer to John. Sherlock stole another glance, and their eyes met. John appeared angry, frustrated and worried, but not fearful. Sherlock took a deep breath, and forced his brain to work while his lips continued to indulge in Moriarty’s worthless banter.

_The sniper’s red dot is pantone 314 consisting of slightly frayed edges around the circle this is indicative of scopes manufactured by Barska...the AC12144-1x30mm 7” Tatical Long Red dot mainly for use on the No 8. L42 Enfield sniper rifle recently bought by the British military for tactical in the Afghan skirmish thank you Mycroft judging by the range of the gun plus the angle of the roof line plus our position on the left side of the pool there are approximately two snipers one on the east wing one on the west positioned to take us both down but the snipers do not have access to detonate the bomb the bomb is a simple two wire exchange with the reactor most likely underneath the left side of the vest it would take approximately 5.2 seconds to diffuse with bomb still on my John…._

_Stop. Just give him the codes._

“Take it” Sherlock. He held out the memory stick.

“Ah” said Moriarty, stepping forward and taking the stick... “Booooring!” he sang, and tossed the stick into the pool.

John rushed forward, shouting “Sherlock run!” as he grabbed Moriarty by the neck and held him tight.

_John what the hell are you doing?_   Sherlock kept the gun pointed at Moriarty’s head as the laser beams darted all over the the two struggling men. A moment of hope flashed his John’s eyes as he swore at Moriarty and strained to see if Sherlock had indeed gotten away. His face fell the moment the red dot of the sniper’s gun fell on Sherlock’s head. He backed off, defeated.

“You quite showed your hand there,” Moriarty chuckled.

Sherlock’s rage was building along with his desperation. He wanted to pull the trigger. He wanted Moriarty’s brains on the concrete. He wanted to rip the bomb off of John’s body and carry him back to Baker street. Moriarty was so close, Sherlock could smell the Hermes D Orange Verte aftershave on his neck.

Sherlock stared into the black soullessness of the madman’s eyes.

“I will burn you,” hissed Moriarty. “I will burn the heart out of you.”

_Idiot. You’re already burning the heart out of me._

_I must get John out of here._

to be continued...


End file.
